Shooting Cans
by RightToRemainSilent
Summary: Just the thought of putting a round or two into the Impala made him nervous. :Wee!Chester:


***waves* **Yep, another SPN fic. Tis the summer holidays and I've not had much to do apart from be rather bored and work through season one in about ten days. Yeah.

Anyway, it's a Wee!Chester (because they're addicting, and small 'Chesters are adorable) and the ages are roughly three-almost-four (Sam) and eight (Dean). I just thought it would be a good way to show the early hunting training and the relationship between the three Winchesters. Feel free to tell me what you think, all feedback encouraged. And yes, Bobby has dogs. They seemed like the kind of pets he'd have, at some point in the past. Just... go with it.

Well, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy at least some of it.

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**Shooting Cans**

The yard was empty. The only sounds that punctured the silence was the quiet breeze that ruffled the trees as it brushed past and the barking of Bobby's dogs. Debris from the cars piled high around the yard was scattered on the tarmac and a lone blackbird looked down from the roof of the house.

Shining bright in the afternoon sun, the Impala sat parallel to the building. On its bonnet, balanced precariously, were three empty beer cans. From the porch, Dean looked cautiously up at his father. John Winchester gave him an encouraging half smile. "Go on, son."

"Nu-uh." Dean squinted at the cans. He held a standard rifle in his hands and an unsure frown was settling on his brow. The Impala was possibly his father's most prized possession, and he wasn't about to accidentally put a bullet in it. Shooting cans was all very well, and he knew he might be able to do it, but just the the thought of putting a round or two into the front of the car made him nervous.

"Dean, at least try."

"Nope."

John sighed. "You're not going to hit the car. I wouldn't let you try if I didn't think you could do it; your shooting's normally very accurate, this isn't that different from normal practice. We've been through this, Dean." They had - for most of the afternoon. John had been trying for the best part of the day to convince his son to at least attempt one shot, but Dean was adamant.

Dean shook his head defiantly. "Not doing it." He lowered the barrel of the gun and scowled down at the sand, his gaze finding his younger brother - playing in the long grass near the gates - for a second, and then snapping back to the dusty ground. "Can't you put 'em on a wall or something?"

"If I put 'em on a wall I don't think you'd put as much thought into hitting 'em as you would if the car's at stake. C'mon Dean, you've shot cans before."

The boy raised an eyebrow, cynical. "Yeah, not like this."

"Most eight year olds can't even handle a gun, let alone hit cans at this distance."

Dean dragged a grubby hand across his face. "Seriously, dad!" His voice was whiney, a tone he rarely resorted to. "If I shoot the car…"

"You won't."

"I could! Remember when we were in the woods, and I missed? I almost hit the car then, and you were real angry."

"You were younger, and not as good with a gun." John tried humour. "Anyway, how else are you s'posed to concentrate on hitting 'em? Do you want me to put one on Sam's head?"

Dean glowered. "Don't be stupid." He adjusted the rifle in nervous hands and sniffed, peering up from under a mousy fringe. "I don't wanna do it, dad."

John removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "Fine. Okay. We'll call it a day, all right?" He turned, about to disappear back into the house and find Bobby, when a shrill scream told both Winchesters something was very wrong in the yard. The barking they had brushed off as being Bobby's dogs seemed far more feral than the Alsatians.

Suddenly alert, Dean took in several things at once – his three-year-old brother, flailing out of the grass, fear plastered over his little face as he almost fell onto the tarmac, feet tripping over themselves in his panic. The strange dog bounding towards the fallen toddler, snarling and wild, the grass shredded beneath its claws. The way Bobby's own dogs had fallen silent in the wake of the vicious new comer.

There was barely enough time to register what was happening, but Dean had already decided what he was going to do. He didn't even think about it, he just did it. His brother, his Sammy, was in danger, and suddenly his earlier worries fell away. Lifting the rifle and taking aim, he pulled the trigger without hesitation – only when he heard the dog yelp and saw it pinwheel to the side did he let go of the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He stood on the porch, breathing heavy, rifle still held tight, as his father ran across the yard to the wailing child. The fear of putting a hole in the Impala faded into nothing. Dean realised with a sick feeling that if he'd missed, if he'd been even slightly off target, he could've hurt Sam. That was a lot worse than damaging the paintwork.

A hand was suddenly on Dean's shoulder, and he looked up. Bobby was squinting out from under his hat, a grim look on his face and he'd obviously run from the house to see what had happened. He looked across at John and, after what seemed like a lifetime, he snorted disbelievingly. "Hit the Impala, my ass."


End file.
